Pages

When I was in grade 1, I won an award. It was for track and field and was beautiful. I had just won the most powerful thing I'd ever seen. It had this red gem fastened to the base that shined like a ruby and the golden man on top of it was a strong warrior. It was a symbol of my great accomplishment, my hard work, and was awesome. I was going to display it with pride.

But! I wasn't allowed to keep this trophy.

I'm not sure if it was because my mom freaked out or someone else. In fact, I wasn't allowed to even touch it. I was told I would get another one to replace it. A more fitting one. When I looked heartbroken, I was given a popsicle to shut me up. I cried on my popsicle.

I didn't understand why I couldn't keep my trophy when the others could. So I approached one of the other winners from grade 5 and 6 who was obviously better in the know. I will forever remember the pride in that boy's eyes. His smile spoke volumes when he said, "You did awesome, today." Then he explained to me that a girl had never won before and they didn't know what to do.

Um... give me my trophy?

Nope. I was told I would get a better one. I wasn't sure yet what was wrong with the one they'd picked out. Later, I stole the trophy from the Sister (Don't worry, she was used to me not listening to her) so I could look at it. Was I really not allowed to have it because I was a girl? What would they do to it?

My mom explained it to me. It was the man on top. Because I was a girl, I should have a trophy with a woman on it. The trophy wasn't fitting. So of course, I asked the obvious questions, "Why didn't they have trophies for the girls?" The competition had been fair. Both girls and boys had competed for the same prize. So why didn't they think a girl could win? Perhaps the world wasn't ready for me. Because I didn't plan to let the fact that I was a girl stop me from doing my best.

Well. Later, (it felt like years and years later) I was given my new trophy. It sucked. I did not get a cool ceremony like the other winners (the boys) had enjoyed. The beautiful red ruby was gone and had left a mark on the marble since they kept the base. I was now staring at a woman athlete who looked pretty feeble compares the strong man of the others. Yes, she sucked.

I felt singled out and different, yet I was not. I was equal to every other winner and that older boy hadn't looked upset at all that a girl had won. We had been measured by the same standards and I had won fair and square.

Yet. I was ashamed and cheated and pissed off, but! it felt like a challenge.

Someone even told me that I should sometimes let the boys win. A woman told me this as if I missed the memo and this was secretly what women were doing.

I threw the trophy away.

It became a frustrating reminder that when boys and girls were treated the same in competitions that society did not expect a girl to walk among the victors.

The following year, on the award stand there were prizes of equal beauty for boys and girls and even though the divisions of the groups and the pointing system were no longer universal, a boy and a girl won in each group, somehow, through math that only a grownup could understand.

I, however, did not win. I was placed in competition with an older grade instead of with children my own age, but then the points I earned were measured against the girls of my age. Which makes no sense to me. I did win one or two of the challenges because I refused to go down without a fight, but in the end, I did not win a trophy. And I would not win again until highschool where the rating system meant I was competing against only girls, and all of them my own age. Winning had lost all value to me by that time. It wasn't about winning, but about knowing I was walking away having done my absolute best and that I had fun doing it.

This experience changed my view on things and made me who I am. I am only ever in competition with myself. And I am hard on myself, much harder than society or my peers would be.

I am happy to say, though, that girls did win that year. And they enjoyed the same ceremony as the boys. And!! this time, the trophy had a green gem in it, and the woman was just as strong as the man in the statue beside her. Small victory, but only now do I understand how I changed things for some of those future gals; some even went to provincial competitions where they competed against other girls their own age in a very fair system, and they rocked it. I am proud of them.

I did notice, though, that not once was there only trophies on that podium that were all of women warriors. Just saying.

I wish I would have kept that ugly trophy, because now it means something to me. It means I made change, not on purpose, but because I am me. And I matter. We all do.

In a competition where women and men are being evaluated as equals, the awards should be gender neutral and either should be expected to win. And the winner should be proud to stand among these other winners and tell them they did awesome.

Lately, there's been some questions concerning awards where both men and women are in equal competition. What title should these awards have? I like the gender neutral titles because it means things were fair, and that either are expected to win.

What about you? As a man would you accept an award with a woman on it because it's all they brought to the podium? As a woman would you be proud to accept an award with a man on it because they were sure a man would win?

We might be competing for the same prize, but win or lose, we deserve respect.

So today, I got an email from December 31st, 1969.
There was no sender. No subject.

I deleted it and left. Came back into my emails and there it was again.

I deleted it again. And left again. Checked again and there it was. AGAIN.

So I left and freaked out.

When I checked again, it was gone.

All my other emails are normal. Except one I had deleted that morning was there again. Only one of many I had deleted.

A glitch?

Sounds like the start of a good horror story, but after I considered all magical, time travel, moon-landings, and other freaky solutions, I tossed around a fun plot based on this notion... and well, then I googled it, which seems to be what I do when I freak out about anything.

After going over all the cool things that happened that day in history, I discovered I was not alone in receiving such emails. Which kinda took the magic out of it.

I found this explanation: ghost email explained and HERE. Which basically says if you check your emails in another timezone you could mess up the UNIX time on your device (Explains the UNIX time) and so it resets to the basic data time of Dec 31, 1969 or Jan 1, 1970 on your device, depending on where you are in the world. This especially happens when you travel from different time zones. I hadn't, but sure. Let's go with that.

Of course, that doesn't explain why I would get an email with that date. I mean, sure my time might reset, but why would I get a blank email from no sender with no subject? What is in my phone creating ghost emails? I mean, I find it taxing enough to make emails, now my phone is just making them up on its own!? That is a strange glitch that I need explained...

On the flip side, it does say this issue is supposed to be fixed with the new updates. I just did my new update, so maybe not yet. I'll give it time...

Now that I'm calm, it's really not a problem, I'll just ignore them. Reset my phone. And forget about it. Right? I mean that's what all writers do when faced with freaky-ass things.

Did this ever happen to you? Did you have ideas about what might be going on? Should I expect it to happen again? Anybody know who to call?

With routines settling back in and school started again and holidays ending, I got thinking about my routine and the little bit of time I find to get shit done.

Long ago, a friend called me for lunch, and I told her I couldn't meet that day as I had to give my husband a lift to work during my lunch hour (we only had one car and I needed it to get home later... right?) but we could meet the following day. She right out told me that my lunch hours were mine and I shouldn't be doing things for others in this time, especially for a man. He should find his own ride to work and not steal time from my day!

Her comment always felt like one of those enigmas I want to solve but can't wrap my mind around. Wasn't meeting with her for lunch considered doing something for others? I mean, I didn't call her and say she needed to chat with me, she did. Yet I was happy she did, so maybe it was more for me. It's been almost twenty years since her comment and it still confuses me, even after I had her explain it very well. She made it clear that running someone I love to work is not how one spends their lunch hour, visiting with a friend is. Yet... how would I get home from work if he had our car because I chose not give him a lift? Her glare still freaked me out. It was clear she would never find that acceptable no matter what logic I used.

I also remember the health nurse telling us during prenatal class that we had to take Me Time to be a good mother. We had to shower and eat and focus on our health so we could be good parents. Which made me wonder if this is what my friend meant. If I focus on me during this lunch time, will I go back to work a better employee?

Not much has changed in my life. My lunch hours are still not what I consider Me Time. They are Get Shit Done Time.

First off, I have to say, I get plenty of Me Time. I read and write for at least 2-4 hours a day. That is my time to just do my thing, which apparently is writing related. I work, so I appreciate the time I have in it with my family and spending time with them, even if it's to give them a lift somewhere. It is still part of how I want to spend my time. I also love the fact that my family respects my time and so I offer them their own Me Time in return where they listen to music, dance, play sports or video games. Sometimes we all sit side by side, enjoying the company of each other while enjoying our own thing. I never feel like we're fighting for time alone or with each other, even though we are always busy.

My lunch hour is a part of my work day. I never really thought about it as Me Time. Despite what my friend insisted.

During my lunch, I always call someone who I know is lonely and who I am thinking about, every day, without fail. I always go home to have a long conversation with my dog, because it is really the only time we spend as just the two of us and we both need that time. I always eat. Those are the guarantees and since I can eat and talk on the phone or to the dog, it takes me 15 minutes to do these things which leaves me a lot of time in that hour! I might answer personal emails and visit blogs or read articles or stalk agents. I might have to run someone here or there or meet my best friend or kids for lunch. I might take a webinar that will give me the tools to help someone else. I might spend it helping or teaching someone something. Sometimes, if I feel a migraine might be threatening, I might do some yoga or spend 5 minutes in a quiet place or go for a walk. I might put the laundry in the dryer so we have clean clothes and if there are dishes I will do those. Then I head back to work full of energy and ready to dive back in.

If I was to write or read or put my feet up and just take my Me Time, I doubt I'd be happy about going back to work. I might even turn to page 75 and realize I missed the afternoon of work! lol.

Seriously though, what do you do for Me Time and what do you do during your lunch hour? Does it make you feel better to keep that hour just for you or to share it with others? Are you happy once summer is done and a routine returns?

With routines settling back in and school started again and holidays ending, I got thinking about my routine and the little bit of time I find to get shit done.

Long ago, a friend called me for lunch, and I told her I couldn't meet that day as I had to give my husband a lift to work during my lunch hour (we only had one car and I needed it to get home later... right?) but we could meet the following day. She right out told me that my lunch hours were mine and I shouldn't be doing things for others in this time, especially for a man. He should find his own ride to work and not steal time from my day!

Her comment always felt like one of those enigmas I want to solve but can't wrap my mind around. Wasn't meeting with her for lunch considered doing something for others? I mean, I didn't call her and say she needed to chat with me, she did. Yet I was happy she did, so maybe it was more for me. It's been almost twenty years since her comment and it still confuses me, even after I had her explain it very well. She made it clear that running someone I love to work is not how one spends their lunch hour, visiting with a friend is. Yet... how would I get home from work if he had our car because I chose not give him a lift? Her glare still freaked me out. It was clear she would never find that acceptable no matter what logic I used.

I also remember the health nurse telling us during prenatal class that we had to take Me Time to be a good mother. We had to shower and eat and focus on our health so we could be good parents. Which made me wonder if this is what my friend meant. If I focus on me during this lunch time, will I go back to work a better employee?

Not much has changed in my life. My lunch hours are still not what I consider Me Time. They are Get Shit Done Time.

First off, I have to say, I get plenty of Me Time. I read and write for at least 2-4 hours a day. That is my time to just do my thing, which apparently is writing related. I work out of the home, so I appreciate the time I have in it with my family and spending time with them, even if it's to give them a lift somewhere. It is still part of how I want to spend my time. I also love the fact that my family respects my time and so I offer them their own Me Time in return where they listen to music, dance, play sports or video games. Sometimes we all sit side by side, enjoying the company of each other while enjoying our own thing. I never feel like we're fighting for time alone or with each other, even though we are always busy.

My lunch hour is a part of my work day. I never really thought about it as Me Time. Despite what my friend insisted.

During my lunch, I always call someone who I know is lonely and who I am thinking about, every day, without fail. I always go home to have a long conversation with my dog, because it is really the only time we spend as just the two of us and we both need that time. I always eat. Those are the guarantees and since I can eat and talk on the phone or to the dog, it takes me 15 minutes to do these things which leaves me a lot of time in that hour! I might answer personal emails and visit blogs or read articles or stalk agents. I might have to run someone here or there or meet my best friend or kids for lunch. I might take a webinar that will give me the tools to help someone else. I might spend it helping or teaching someone something. Sometimes, if I feel a migraine might be threatening, I might do some yoga or spend 5 minutes in a quiet place or go for a walk. I might put the laundry in the dryer so we have clean clothes and if there are dishes I will do those. Then I head back to work full of energy and ready to dive back in.

If I was to write or read or put my feet up and just take my Me Time, I doubt I'd be happy about going back to work. I might even turn to page 75 and realize I missed the afternoon of work! lol.

Seriously though, what do you do for Me Time and what do you do during your lunch hour? Does it make you feel better to keep that hour just for you or to share it with others? Are you happy once summer is done and a routine returns?

Legends on the Prairies is out as eBook!

Paperback will be released this November

Such a simple question, yet what Sacri really wants Alex to believe is that he is the hero from her legends. A hero meant to save land sacred to her tribe.

Alex is a lot of things. He’s a painter, a sculptor, and a dreamer. He was just fired from a good job, grieves for a woman he hoped to marry, and is known as the local drunk. He’s terrified of fire, of losing his friend, and of being alone. He is a lot of things, but hero isn’t one of them.

Travelling across the country in 1892 to settle land on an unexplored part of the prairies, he hopes to find himself, to find a reason for his pitiful existence, and to have one last adventure with his dying friend. What he actually finds in the heart of the lonesome prairies is Sacri, defending land with her very soul. She believes he is the Man of Legends sent to save Sacred Land. Her determination entrances him. Despite everything, Alex finds himself praying to a God that he thought had abandoned him, in the hope that, just maybe, there is some truth to Sacri’s stories.

To add to Alex’s unease is the certainty that Sacri’s brother, often merely glimpsed as a silver shadow riding his horse across the horizon, will happily kill Alex if he turns out not to be the man who Sacri thinks he is.

Legends on the Prairies, a Sacred Land Story is the prequel to Ghosts on the Prairies. Alternate history with paranormal and romantic elements, it is a story about growth, friendship, love, and the importance of believing in ourselves.

I was trying to read an article this morning and between all the pop up ads and the side ads and the in between ads, by the time I made it to the end... I forgot what I was reading.

And even more frustrating, I had to re-enter the site and the article and scroll back to where I was, several times because some ads kicked me out. The one shut down my screen. I had the option between: I AM A WRITER and I AM NOT YET BUT WILL BE. I was nervous where the I AM A WRITER prompt would bring me as I do not have time today for a trip to Dreamland or some other creative realm. So I lied to it and said I was not a writer and it politely let me return to the article... from the start.

So what is with the sudden ad overload? And they seem to be personally aimed at me and my interests (which is cool, but a little freaky and makes me think of a good story I could write about selling my personal information...). Point is, because they are aimed for me specifically, they distract the heck out of me. I mean books are cool and writing rocks but why can't I just read the article in peace and see the ads at the end of the article so that THEN I can pick my next article?

Who is responsible for this change because we need to talk. Those of you making your own sites, please remember that ad placement is important for readers. Try not to drown me because I now have various sites flagged, and won't be returning.

“Don’t you believe in legends?” Such a simple question, yet what Sacri really wants Alex to believe is that he is the hero from her legends. A hero meant to save land sacred to her tribe.

Alex is a lot of things. He’s a painter, a sculptor, and a dreamer. He has just been fired from a good job, grieves for a woman he hoped to marry, and is known as the local drunk. He’s terrified of fire, of losing his friend, and of being alone. He is a lot of things, but hero isn’t one of them.

Travelling across the country in 1892 to settle land on an unexplored part of the prairies, he hopes to find himself, to find a reason for his pitiful existence, and to have one last adventure with his dying friend. What he actually finds in the heart of the lonesome prairies is Sacri, defending land with her very soul. She believes he is the Man of Legends sent to save Sacred Land. Her determination entrances him. Despite himself, Alex finds himself praying to a God that he thought had abandoned him, in the hope that, just maybe, there is some truth to Sacri’s stories. To add to Alex’s unease is the certainty that Sacri’s brother, often merely glimpsed as a silver shadow riding his horse across the horizon, will happily kill Alex if he turns out not to be the man that Sacri thinks he is.

“This prequel doesn’t just add depth to the tale we already know,” says Peter Buck, Editorial Director of Elsewhen Press, “because, as well as providing some history for those characters, it gives us an insightful story about two people who are driven to fulfill a destiny they don’t necessarily understand or even fully believe. It’s a story about how the goodness in a person’s heart can overcome cultural division and social stigma, which is even more remarkable for having occurred in 1892. You don’t need to have read Ghosts on the Prairies to be charmed, moved and ultimately inspired by this book.”

Elsewhen Press is an independent publisher of Speculative Fiction. Based in the UK, in the South East of England, Elsewhen Press publishes titles in English in digital and print editions, adopting a digital-first policy for most titles. Elsewhen Press is an imprint of Alnpete Limited.
http://bit.ly/elsewhenPR

Somehow, turning 40 feels like I should be wiser. Or at the very least, standing around looking smarter. I am neither and I suppose this story will reinforce that. Don't get me wrong, I have moments of pure genius. But! They are not while others are around to witness my momentary brilliance. No, they are while I stare at my vomit covered socks, shivering and naked.

I guess I should set the scene. This tale of wisdom happened in the winter. Everyone had been sick at my house, and as flus go, it was my turn to carry the puke bucket. The last of the gang, I had already seen my share of vomit that week.

While I stared at my puke-covered socks, I realized that we each have a different style of throwing up. Which didn't make me feel better, but it explained me being suddenly naked, except for the socks. And well, those were about to go, too.

There is the Mad-Dasher. This vomiter WILL make the bathroom at all cost so stay the heck out of the way 'cause it might take some acrobatics to get there and shoving is an option.

There is the Pail-Seeker. This one pauses, looks around for something appropriate to toss those cookies in, and blah, hits it dead on.

Oh my, the I-Will-Never-Hit-A-Pail-So-Why-Bother is the opposite. Even the dog was victimized. Yet amazingly, there is this magical bubble around this one that stays safe, so returning to sleep peacefully while the rest of us look after the mess is possible.

Then there is me. My first stomach twist happened in the car, so you can follow the trail of me getting in the house and to the bathroom by the pieces of clothing I threw up on and quickly discarded (because who wants to take another step in puke covered clothes.) Yup. Scarf, mitts, jacket, boots, sweater, a variety of endless layers, pants, more layers, undies, and that left me staring at the socks. How was it possible to get every single article of clothing I was wearing covered in puke and nothing else? Magic or dedication?

And so here I am suddenly 40 (yes, it came out of nowhere.) and wondering what brilliant thing I can share with the world, and this is the story that comes to me. Why? Because it reflects quite well how life works. We can have a focused goal in mind, or just aim for anything. We can protect ourselves while others suffer. Or we can take the hits and lose bits of ourselves in the process. But the real value of each lesson we learn is found in that moment when we stand naked and stare at our vomit covered socks knowing we will survive.

Deep, I know.

Okay! And now for the birthday inventory. Last one I did was when I turned 35: these were the goals:

my goals at 35;-I want to learn to surf. (I learnt to swim, stood in the crashing, crazy waves and watched others surf up close. Given that I only made it to an ocean a few times, that's a good start.)

-I want to actively participate in community development in another country. (Decided to dedicate myself to this community instead. For now.)

-I want to hold one of my books, sign my name in it, and hand it to someone who I know will enjoy it. (Hope you enjoyed it.)

My new and improved goals now that I am 40?

-Sleep, nightly. I read somewhere that 35-45 are the hardest years because your aging parents need more attention, your career is at its peek, your children are teens and need you to be a role model and a friend and a dictating monster, you suddenly need to think about planning for retirement and college, and your health is suddenly an issue... So as all this comes crashing on me, my only goal is sleep, so I can survive another one.

What do we know about ancient civilizations? About religious beliefs? About anything really?

Writing today documents what we know about these things in our time, and how we feel about this knowing, how we react, how we see the world in this moment.

Why are classics timeless? Forget the writing style which is amazing, and think about how we can get lost in the beliefs of another time. We can see how one life shaped today's world. It makes me a stronger woman to read about how women were treated. It makes me proud of my roots to read the story of how my ancestors pioneered. What pushes us to be so us? Fiction gives us an insight to society, non-fiction gives us the truths or goals.

Of course it does so much more. If we stop for a moment to think about a genre, any one will do, as they are all important...

Why are sci-fis so fascinating? They allow us to imagine what the world would be like based on what we know at the time of the writing. It draws me in to see the future through the eyes of artists. Why? Because they are seeing something in today's world and bringing that to life in a future. It could be anything. How we idolize our bodies or how we normalize drugs... and they twist it into a future so bizarre we buy into it because... what if?

Historical fiction takes a past event and changes something about it. It might have really happened that way, how do we know? Seeing a new truth, means we see the world around us differently. Which can be exciting or scary. It can open our eyes to other things because... what if?

Writers don't just document events, they document emotions and beliefs that entire futures are shaped around. They put themselves in spots and troubles and work their way out in ways that shock us yet remind us that nothing is impossible.

There is no limit in the minds of writers. The raw honesty, the bold voices, all of it comes from where? Is it from things observed in the world around them? Why do they choose a certain set of eyes to tell the story? How do they know that's the most compelling way to share this story? And why is the same story so different told by someone else.

Each of us has a story in us that was shaped by others, by communities, by beliefs, by history, by our future goals and dreams. These stories are like little headings we walk around with for a writer to record and transmit.

Thanks to technology, we are each documenting our own journey. We are leaving behind a trace of ourselves our great grand children will look up and write about in THEIR own words. Can you imagine those school assignments?

"Based on my Internet research, my great grandfather really liked hockey. He was bold and openly told people to stop bad mouthing things, which I like about him. Everyone loved him. He got over fifty birthday wishes and had six hundred friends! He went on two trips in his life and ate a lot of red meat with beer. He read one book and watched two movies throughout his lifetime. Both of which he left no comments, but he did give one of the actresses a five star! He did however leave a comment about a music artist. I don't know what it means but he said the artist was lame. I assume it saddened him that he was hurt and wanted others to support him because he made a lot of such comments about his lameness. He shared A LOT of posts about cats, so I bet he was a cat lover. Here are several self portraits of my grandfather. His first one is an ultrasound from when he was still in his mother's womb. I found it on her page. He's in his diaper here. I found it because his aunt tagged it. He's at a party here, this was something a friend posted but tagged him in. He graduated college here and bought his first car. This is his wedding picture. He had a black eye, but I can't find why, but I assume he must have fallen from a tree saving one of his beloved cats. This was him with my grandmother the day she was born, and later at her first hockey game. His final pictures were after his stroke. He handled it great and started blogging while in the hospital. The blog posts talk about hockey teams and his opinion on them which is very bold and caused some controversy. I like that about him. Surprisingly I couldn't find any pictures of him with his cats."

This is followed by the child who says, "My great grandma was sick a lot. She only posted pictures of her dogs and her crafts. I was surprised to see this picture of this hat she made, because I own it now! Wow! I had no idea she'd made this or that it was so old. I wonder why she was always sick."

Yup. Your story is writing itself!

How has the written word affected your life? Do you worry about the digital trace we're leaving behind? What does your story tell? What genre influenced your life? What story are you sharing?

So I was digging in some archives this week. The story I had was pretty simple, this priest started a Boy Scouts chapter in the 1960s and when he left the community it ended. I don't know what I was thinking I'd dig up, but anything would be helpful. I was hoping for the Scouts leaders, maybe the participants... you know, some fun facts to make a little article about it.

The truth was somewhat deeper. Yeah, yeah, this priest started the Boy Scouts, but from that first fact I imagined he was the leader. But he didn't run it, he had Brothers run it. These Brothers did quite a few awesome things in the community. And from his own letters I read about how he was having trouble with these Brothers not respecting him. All this priest wanted was a little respect, and he had a list of times when they were purposely destroying him. In fact, as a team, they were bullying him, using the fact that the community liked them to turn everyone against him. They were giving him the cold shoulder and this was affecting his status in the community and his ability to do his job. And yup, not once was this denied in the replies from the Brother Superior.

But, there are always two sides, right? And when I had someone else read one of the letters, her comment was, "He sure has a lot of pointless complaints." And I won't list them all here, but yeah, they could be considered trivial grievances, things like leaving mass early to get to class... Things weren't instant messaged back in the 60's, so months later he got a reply stating that respect works both ways and the reason they didn't respect him was because of how he had openly called them down during mass, repeatedly, or that he was purposely doing these masses when he knew they were committed elsewhere... The priest was reminded about how dedicated they were and how much they were giving back to the community. Brother Superior had his own list of things the priest had done to degrade the Brothers and not appreciate all the things they were doing. And once again, this list could be considered trivial grievances or perhaps fuel to the fire.

As an exhausted mediator, the Brother Superior asked both parties to show compassion and remember their mission. He reminded them that these small problems were not worth the trouble and that if they could put them aside, they would see real change in the community. Some good advice, in writing.

The letters stopped, or went missing, maybe the priest burned them. Maybe the issues were resolved or maybe they got worse. Heck, maybe a zombie clan ate the lot. We won't ever know. What I do know is that years passed and both the Brothers and the priest left the community because they were needed elsewhere... and so ended the Boy Scouts, never to start up again.

Now. I tried to remain objective. Did you? Think about it, when I used the word "bullying" did you side with the priest being picked on by a gang of Brothers or when I used the word "trivial" did you side with the Brothers doing all the work for the priest and not getting any appreciation? Did you feel the frustration of the Brother Superior when I used the word "exhausted", maybe even hear him sigh as he thought about how childish they were all being? Or did you see the other victims: the Boy Scouts and think about all the future generations missing out?

Words are powerful and can quickly move me from being objective to getting you to see things my way. Now, even better, as the storyteller, I can spin this in any one direction and lose my objectivity to take you on an emotional ride... Heck, I can even go all fantasy and say a Dark Whisperer visited this town and did a little whispering, spreading this chaos. And a Light Whisperer (The Brother Superior), tried to fix things. Or I could go all zombie apocalypse and say they were attacked by zombies and couldn't work together, and the Boy Scouts were eaten! Now they feel bad. I mean, who wouldn't?

And once I pick a side, a victim, a setting, and decide who is the good guy and who is the bad guy (even if there is none) I have a story. It'll change from storyteller to storyteller as they add in their perspective, their voice, even their beliefs. And in doing so, the same story can be retold different ways and make us think of different truths and different possibilities, without ever giving us the truth, the whole truth or without ever lying.

Mind boggling.

So is the story changing how we see the players or are the players changing the way we see story? Is it the words having this imagery effect on our senses? Or our own experiences?

It got me thinking about an exercise I did in a writing class once. The teacher showed us a picture of a tree with a door. The Sci-fi writers went off telling us how this door was going to open onto some other dimension. I knew it was the home of fairy, and of course the history buff at the table said it was clearly some symbolic thing. The romance writer had a lovely tale to share about a maiden in hiding... and so this door kept our creative minds busy. Not one of us had the same idea about the same door (it was red, by the way, with a brass knocker and two cement steps leading up to it, a flower pot on the right side). And depending on how the tale was told, our emotions were evoked and our imagination let loose.

Thanks to social media, are we picking sides based on what we read without getting all the story or based on someone's point of view of the story? Or is it the opposite and thanks to social media and searches, we can get the story with objectivity? What do you think? Are you seeing more and more storytelling or more and more factual objective tales?

And I know you're dying to share your story about the door in the tree, so please do.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

by Tanya Reimer

And so Eve tempts the devil.

Xaphan is the immortal devil of creation who just escaped the rules of Hell. He is gifted in creating things like link-ups that allow him to travel between worlds, only he isn’t supposed to use this gift. He’s supposed to give it to his brother to undo, because this is how things balance in Hell.

Breaking the rules is thrilling. On the run in another world, Xaphan finds a quiet haven where he plans to hide away. With his gal Eve at his side, his future is as shiny as the forbidden apples he enjoys… until his brother finds him.

Will these devils realise how damned they are or will Eve win another devil over with her forbidden fruit?

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Published today – Existence is Elsewhen, Science Fiction anthology headlined by
John Gribbin

Twenty stories from twenty great writers, also including Rhys Hughes, Christopher Nuttall and
Douglas Thompson
DARTFORD, KENT – 18 March 2016 – Elsewhen Press, an independent UK publisher specialising in
Speculative Fiction, is delighted to announce the publication today of Existence is Elsewhen, an anthology of
twenty science fiction stories from twenty great writers. According to Peter Buck, Editorial Director at
Elsewhen Press, “The title paraphrases the last sentence of André Breton’s 1924 Manifesto of Surrealism,
perfectly summing up the intent behind this anthology of stories from a
wonderful collection of authors. Different worlds… different times. It’s what
Elsewhen Press has been about since we launched our first title in 2011. We
were thrilled when John agreed to headline.”

Headlining the collection is John Gribbin, with a worrying vision of medical
research in the near future. Future global healthcare is the theme of
J. A. Christy’s story, while the ultimate in spare part surgery is where
Dave Weaver takes the reader. Edwin Hayward’s search for a renewable
protein source turns out to be digital; and Tanya Reimer’s story with
characters we think we know, gives pause for thought about another food we
all take for granted. Evolution is examined too, with Andy McKell’s chilling
tale of what states could become if genetics are used to drive policy. Similarly,
Robin Moran’s story explores the societal impact of an undesirable
evolutionary trend, while Douglas Thompson provides a truly surreal warning
of an impending disaster that will reverse evolution, with dire consequences.

On a lighter note, there is satire as Steve Harrison uncovers who really owns
the Earth (and why); and Ira Nayman, who uses the surreal alternative
realities of his Transdimensional Authority series as the setting for a detective story mash-up of Agatha
Christie and Dashiel Hammett. Pursuing the crime-solving theme, Peter Wolfe explores life, and death, on a
space station, while Stefan Jackson follows a police investigation into some bizarre cold-blooded murders in
a cyberpunk future. Going into the past, albeit an 1831 set in the alternate Britain of his Royal Sorceress
series, Christopher Nuttall reports on an investigation into a girl with strange powers.

Strange powers in the present-day is the theme for Tej Turner, who tells a poignant tale of how extra-sensory
perception makes it easier for a husband to bear his dying wife’s last few days. Difficult decisions are the
theme of Chloe Skye’s heart-rending story exploring personal sacrifice. Relationships aren’t always so close,
as Susan Oke’s tale demonstrates, when sibling rivalry is taken to the limit. Relationships are the backdrop to
Peter R. Ellis’s story where a spectacular mid-winter event on a newly-colonised distant planet involves a
Madonna and Child. Coming right back to Earth and in what feels like an almost imminent future,
Siobhan McVeigh tells a cautionary tale for anyone thinking of using technology to deflect the blame for
their actions. Building on the remarkable setting of Pera from her LiGa series, and developing Pera’s
legendary Book of Shadow, Sanem Ozdural spins the creation myth of the first light tree in a lyrical and
poetic song. Also exploring language, the master of fantastika and absurdism, Rhys Hughes, extrapolates the
way in which language changes over time, with an entertaining result.

Existence is Elsewhen, published today by Elsewhen Press on popular eBook platforms, will also be available
in paperback from the 25th March with a launch at the 2016 Eastercon in Manchester.

Elsewhen Press is an independent publisher of Speculative Fiction. Based in the UK, in the South East of
England, Elsewhen Press publishes titles in English in digital and print editions, adopting a digital-first
policy for most titles. Elsewhen Press is an imprint of Alnpete Limited.

This and other press releases from Elsewhen Press can be obtained as pdf files from
http://elsewhen.co.uk/index.php/retrieve/press/
or can be viewed in our PRLog Pressroom at http://bit.ly/elsewhenPR

Legends say that tens of thousands of years ago, Whisperers were banished from the heavens, torn in half, and dumped on a mortal realm they didn't understand. Longing for their other half, they went from being powerful immortals to lonely leeches relying on humans to survive. Over the years, they earned magic from demons, they left themselves Notebooks with hints, and by pairing up with human souls, they eventually found their other halves.

Humbled by their experiences, they discovered the true purpose of life and many were worthy of returning to the heavens. But many were not...

The Dark Chronicles are stories that share the heartache of select unworthy Whisperers on their journey to immortality after The War of 2019. Can't Dream Without You is one of those stories, in which we meet Steve and Julia, two such heroes.

Steve isn't a normal boy. He plays with demons, his soul travels to a dream realm at night using mystical butterflies, and soon he'll earn the power to raise the dead. Al thinks that destroying him would do the world a favour, yet he just can't kill his own son.Wanting to acquire the power that raises the dead before Steve does, Al performs a ritual on Steve's sixteenth birthday. He transfers Steve's dark magic to Julia, an innocent girl he plans to kill. But Steve is determined to save Julia and sucks her soul to Dreamland. From the dream world, he invokes the help of her brother to keep her safe.

Five years later, Steve can't tell what's real or what's a nightmare. Julia's brother wants to kill him, a strange bald eagle is erasing memories, and Steve's caught in some bizarre bullfight on another realm with a cop hot on his trail looking to be Julia's hero. All the while, Steve and Julia must fight the desperate need to make their steamy dreams a reality.

So recently, I found my old report cards. They gave us all a good laugh. But one really jumped out at me. It was my kindergarten report card from the only city school I attended. I don't remember the teacher. I don't remember one kid's name. But! I knew I loved school. So I was curious what the teacher had to say about me, a little quiet student lost in a shuffle of a large city class. Two sentences jumped out:

Tanya has shown a keen interest and enthusiasm in learning. She has developed a special interest in words... and Tanya has shown an interest in our cultural and others.

I do remember learning about letters and how they made words. It was fascinating. I always loved learning about different places and people, especially my own cultural. Maybe she wrote that on everyone's report cards, but it made me feel at home when I read that.

I don't remember ever reading or seeing that report until now.

Thirty-four years later, I write and I work for a cultural centre. Words and cultural are my world. Isn't it weird that I showed interest in those things that young and it never changed? If you follow the report cards, the only thing that changed was that I grew stronger in math and gym (have any of you almost failed gym class? lol), but always social studies and languages were clearly my favs.

Not long ago my daughter had to do one of those career tests to see what might be the perfect career for her. So for fun I did it with her. What came up? Writing and working in a cultural center. Not even kidding you.

When I was younger I wanted to be Superman's girlfriend. I mean think about it, she was a writer, she got to travel to other places, and well... Superman...

Okay, I see the pattern; words and culture.

Anyway, point is, we can't really change who we are, can we? So what did you want to be when you grew up and how much did you change since you were 5? I apparently am right where I started, only so very much older with still so much to learn about everything.

I am a born and raised Saskatchewan girl, that means, I know we never put the winter clothes away and we keep the summer ones at hand, because in the heart of winter, seeing shorts is all the hope I’ll need to face another blistery day.

I like the way I write that without a swear word, it comes off nice and fun, almost pleasant. It should be, right?

I guess the snow isn't the problem. I see the newbies out there taking pictures of it and writing home about all the "happy snow". Snow is fun. I mean, look how happy my dog is. She has no idea yet how freaking cold it is about to get.

And it is the cold that sucks the vitamin D out of us, not literally of course. What happens is that the sun shines-- it shines a lot around here-- and it's deceiving because the only way to enjoy it is with layers and layers that no warm rays will ever penetrate.

As I shake out my ski-pants, I feel hard core, I must be, after all I choose to live this way, and no, it's not all fun. I know it’s going to get cold and I’m secretly looking forward to it. Does everyone remember last year when it reached minus 46C (that's like -50F for you non-Canadians)? Hell yeah, it was so awesome my snot froze in under three seconds. I still get excited talking about it. The kids missed school five times because of the cold, and when I say that it’s with pride, because we don’t close school at no sissy temperatures around here.
We don’t really live in Saskatchewan until the temperatures drop from fun to bitchy. That’s when all the excitement happens out on the prairies: Skating, shoveling, hockey, BBQing challenges, pushing out the car, snowboarding, shoveling (did I mention that already), skiing, digging, snowshoeing, boosting the car, skidooing, curling, checking the weather, warming the car, putting on the layers of clothes, building snowmen and women, maybe even a family, sledding, falling down the icy stairs, ice sculptures, making "tire" (pronounced TEERE. It is warm maple syrup-- or some other imitation since this is Saskatchewan-- on the snow... yum!!!), shoveling again, (let's face it, it never ends)... Maybe it’s how we fight the depletion of vitamin D but I always feel so busy in the winter!

Regardless, my car gear is packed, just need to throw in a Snickers, I got mighty hungry last year pushing myself out of the snow. My family has their winter layers ready- fat, long underwear, shirt, sweater, jacket, ski-pants, parka, toque, mitts, scarves... did I miss anything? and then slipping on those ugly ten pound winter boots is always a joy, in fact we keep them displayed on the rack as if they’re a monument we couldn’t live without-- well, to be fair, we couldn’t.
Any good winter stories? I could use a laugh.

A magical THANKS to all the readers, critique partners, editors, all those at the publishing end who make this shine so perfectly. Quoting Steve from the story, they helped me highlight the weirdness "just right".

This story started almost twenty years ago. I'd wanted to make it a horror story about a girl who gets kidnapped but once she's free, she returns to kidnap her captor. In an eerie sense, those elements are still in the story, it just somehow grew as Steve and Julia found their magic and discovered who they really were.

My husband and children believe in me and my dark side, I owe them so much and appreciate all they do so I can write!!!!, and I hope that one day, if this goes well, I can show off my light side, making everything balance just right between the realms of writing and life.

Now it is up to my fans and readers to enjoy the magic from The Dark Chronicles. Thanks for taking the time to dream with me and visit other realms, where everything is not what it seems, and your dreams can become nightmares with one word.

The Dark Chronicles – banished immortals and their struggle to return to heaven Elsewhen Press publishes Can’t Dream Without You, the first of The Dark Chronicles from rising star of Canadian speculative fiction, Tanya Reimer. DARTFORD, KENT – 8 January 2016 – Elsewhen Press, an independent UK publisher specialising in Speculative Fiction, is delighted to announce the publication today of Can’t Dream Without You by Canadian author Tanya Reimer, the first of her tales from The Dark Chronicles. Legends say that, tens of thousands of years ago, Whisperers were banished from the heavens, torn in half, and dumped on a mortal realm that they didn’t understand. Longing for their other halves, they went from being powerful immortals to lonely leeches relying on humans to survive. Over the years, they earned magic from demons, they left themselves Notebooks with hints, and by pairing up with human souls, they eventually found their other halves. Humbled by their experiences, they discovered the true purpose of life and many were worthy of returning to the heavens. But many were not. The Dark Chronicles are stories that share the heartache of select unworthy Whisperers on their journey back to immortality after The War of 2019. Can’t Dream Without You is one such story, in which we meet Steve and Julia. Steve isn’t a normal boy. He plays with demons, his soul travels to a dream realm at night using mystical butterflies, and soon he’ll earn the power to raise the dead. Al thinks that destroying him would do the world a favour, yet he just can’t kill his own son. Wanting to acquire the power that raises the dead before Steve does, Al performs a ritual on Steve’s sixteenth birthday. He transfers Steve’s dark magic to Julia, an innocent girl he plans to kill. But Steve is determined to save Julia and sucks her soul to Dreamland. From the dream world, he invokes the help of her brother to keep her safe. Five years later, Steve can’t tell what’s real or what’s a nightmare. Julia’s brother wants to kill him, a strange bald eagle is erasing memories, and Steve’s caught in some bizarre bullfight on another realm with a cop hot on his trail looking to be Julia’s hero. All the while, Steve and Julia must fight the desperate need to make their steamy dreams a reality. Can’t Dream Without You is published in digital editions today by Elsewhen Press. It will be published in a print edition in April. About Elsewhen PressElsewhen Press is an independent publisher of Speculative Fiction. Based in the UK, in the South East of England, Elsewhen Press publishes titles in English in digital and print editions, adopting a digital-first policy for most titles and a digital-only policy for some. Elsewhen Press is an imprint of Alnpete Limited.

Happy readings!! And before you go, let me know, if you've ever written or read something that you wanted to turn out a certain way yet find yourself years later looking at something so different, yet just right.